


The Heart of the Sea

by PaintingthePeoniesRed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Development, Dark!Ossë, Gen, Sailing To Valinor, archive warnings may apply later, but much more angst in the end, much happiness in the beginning, overseas adventures, that then go wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintingthePeoniesRed/pseuds/PaintingthePeoniesRed
Summary: "But the Great Sea is terrible, Tuor son of Huor; and it hates the Noldor, for it works the Doom of the Valar. Worse things it holds than to sink into the abyss and so perish: loathing, and loneliness, and madness; terror of wind and tumult, and silence, and shadows where all hope is lost...."-Voronwë, The Fall of GondolinVoronwë sets out to find Aman and plead to the Valar for aid in the wars against Morgoth as one in a fleet of seven ships, but things go spectacularly wrong. From exposure to the elements to an intriguing, yet wild and untamed ocean Maia, he will face hardships he never dreamed of, make steadfast friends, and somehow must try to survive.
Relationships: Voronwë (Tolkien) & Círdan, Voronwë (Tolkien) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> Quenya:  
> oaris - mermaid  
> rehto - savior  
> estel - hope  
> onya - my child

The rush of the waves breaking and churning the surf, washing up on the sand and then receding true to the rhythm of a faraway heartbeat, the cries of the gulls o’er the water, and every invigorating breath of salt-kissed air sang a Song of Sea-yearning within the hearts of all who dared stop and wonder at its call. Aye, it was a Song few could ever resist.

Indeed, Voronwë knew not how anyone ever might resist it and run from it. Well, no: it would be reasonable to run to escape some immediate danger, or to aid a friend’s defense somewhere inland from _their_ immediate danger. However, few were the times when this was the case; Morgoth waged his wars elsewhere, and friends were scarce in these trying times. _So_ , the Elf concluded (with an air of jest), _the rest of those who run from the water must be nothing less than mad_. He took a deep breath — for the thousandth time that day — and surveyed the scene before him.

The atmosphere was charged with energy and excitement, as a bow strung before the release of an arrow. Elves moved to and fro, carrying things onto the last of the seven ships to prepare for their departure. Yelling could be heard on the ship as some Elves called for others to fasten some knot here, or move that barrel there, and others scurried along on deck and below to check once more that everything in the vessel was as it should be. Naturally, they found nothing worthy of complaint; Círdan the Shipwright’s work was always impeccable. The gangway was continually filled with hurried Elves, some precariously balanced as they passed each other on its narrow path, though most managed to time themselves to avoid collision with another walking the opposite way. On the wharf itself, the stronger Elves carried a few barrels of drinking water in addition to larger ones of ale, and the occasional store of wine (supposedly for their morale in the later parts of the journey, though few believed it would last that long undrunk). There were laughs between friends, shouted orders, and good-natured slaps-on-the-back of approval by the more authoritative ones… but over all the happiness lay a layer of unspoken solemnity. 

Foreboding thoughts clouded the backs of their minds of what lay ahead, and — perhaps even more so — what lay behind. None had gone unaffected by the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the Fall of the Falas, neither did they forget the purpose of their voyage, and the dangers they might face. And yet, the Sea-air had properties they could not explain, and the heavy burden of loss and grief was lifted off the shoulders of the Elves of the Isle of Balar somewhat. It was difficult to remain wholly grim and heartbroken among the pearly waters and waves that surrounded them, coaxing them to sleep each night with their peaceful lullabies. 

Yet what was lightened was not wholly gone. With a pang of sorrow, Voronwë remembered his father, who had died in battle, and his mother, one of the many who stayed in the Havens before its ruin. Slain or enslaved, he would never see her again.

The great Sea stretched beyond his line of sight into waters he had never sailed, to lands he’d never seen. The thought of sailing that far brought with it a surge of excitement, and then the thought that it was happening _tomorrow_ made his insides feel as though he were free-falling. 

He had heard tales of Valinor and dreamt of seeing — perhaps even _meeting_ — the Ainur, the distant figures he had only ever heard of… but he knew his fantasies were all rosy and glittering and the voyage would not be as easy as he liked to think. His eyes flitted over the horizon in their well-worn, surveying path, scanned the coastlines, searching with a small gleam of… hope? Fear? Excitement, perhaps all three, and… wonder? _The water seems calm enough far-off,_ he thought to himself, _and though there are tales of tempests and I myself have seen the aftermath of the wrath of Ossë in his might against the rock-cliffs in Nevrast, there are no cliffs in the open ocean. Uinen is kinder, it is said._

 _What if_ he _is_ —

A sharp laugh snapped Voronwë out of his reverie. 

“Daydreaming again, I see?”

The half-Noldo looked up from his seat on the sandy earth beneath a palm-tree to meet the eyes of the newcomer, and smiled, only slightly sheepish. “‘Twas not a daydream; I was thinking of the coming months, and what the Seas might have in store for us.” That was a half-truth.

“Ah, I see. And what then is it you see in our near-future, that you spend so long pondering on it? Undoubtedly some great vision, Oh Great Seer, that you find it necessary to stand here and brood while the rest of us are burdened with the task of loading the ship!”

Voronwë espied his friend out of the corner of his eye, a mildly annoyed smirk toying at the edges of his mouth. “Well,” he droned on in a monotone, perfectly serious-sounding voice, pushing himself to his feet slowly with feigned thoughtfulness, “for you, Poldórëa, I see a swat across your face.”

Poldórëa ducked away just in time, barely managing to avoid Voronwë’s hand with another bark of laughter. “Ha! You ought to know by now you cannot best me in sport.” 

It was true; while Voronwë was nimble and by no means weak or thin, Poldórëa was bigger and stronger, yet still graceful. 

“Though in all seriousness, what is it you were thinking?” Poldórëa’s voice had a soft edge to it, as one might when speaking to a younger sibling, concerned. “Your eyes had the glazed sparkle in them they do when you are truly lost in the depths of your mind.”

Voronwë looked down at his hands and idly picked at some of the sand stuck under his nails with a shrug. “It is nothing, I promise you. Just a passing thought.” A tickle on the side of his foot alerted him of some creature stirring, and he looked down to notice a small hermit crab reaching out its legs in an attempt to pass. Once it seemed to find it could not climb over the Elf's foot, it scuttled along the edge of it, searching for a way around. If it would continue on its current path, it would leave the safety of the vegetation and be an easy meal for the hungry gulls. Voronwë stooped over and picked it up, only for it to hide at the first sensation of the sand dropping away beneath it. He turned it in his hand to look at the opening of the brown, well-worn shell, where a few legs were carefully curled to protect the soft parts of the crab from exposure, even in this tiny gap.

Poldórëa ignored the minor distraction — such idle moments were common when talking to Voronwë, and he was well used to them. “In that case, join me in loading the ship once more. I propose a contest: the one of us to carry the most and stow it away on-board wins a favor from the other.” His eyes sparkled with playfulness, and he held out his hand in an invitation to return.

“I see not the point of your game. You know you will win.” Voronwë now fully smirked, and looked up from the hermit crab in his hands to meet his friend's eyes. “ _I cannot best you in sport_. No, I refuse you your contest."

Poldórëa scowled. “Come now, sport or no, the ship must be loaded, and all hands are required to aid. Círdan’s orders.”

He could not refuse such an order, nor did he have any wish to. “Very well, then, I am coming,” he sighed, relenting at last. He set the crab down on the sand where he had found it, though facing back towards the forest, and followed Poldórëa. After a moment of walking, he could not resist a glance behind. It was as if nothing had happened to the crab at all — it had turned around again and now continued blindly on its doomed path. _Stupid creature._ The Elf huffed a small laugh that harbored just the slightest bit of pity, then continued on his way.

Despite all his jest of making Voronwë carry the heavier things to make up for his daydreaming earlier, Poldórëa acted on none of it. He carried the rations, and Voronwë was left to gather his own things and set them in the corner of the main cabin that would be their quarters, and then to tend to the sails to be sure all was prepared for their voyage. Done, he now sat on the silver rigging that led up to the tallest mast in the twilight, and closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the excitement that filled him once more. The ship was beautiful, and built by one of his own kin, no less. All in white and silver — though not a swan — she had an air of grace and regality strewn about her, from her elegant, polished prow with the figurehead of a mermaid reaching out in front of her, to her delicate and artfully-carved name written in Tengwar on her sides. She was called _Oaris,_ and she would — Ilúvatar willing — do great things alongside her sisters, and together find the shores of Aman and plead to the Valar for aid.

Inside, it was comfortable for the Elves that would be living in her hull, with only the most comfortable (though still practical) of hammocks. Stores upon stores of _lembas_ and the ale and water that had been loaded aboard earlier, carefully preserved, were stowed away below decks in quantities sufficient for many times the length of the expected voyage. It never hurt to be too careful, or well-prepared. As last to depart, she would sail behind the rest of their fleet and arrive on the shores of Aman well after the others made landfall.

Voronwë regretted his tarrying on the way to the Isle of Balar. Had he arrived sooner he might have joined more of his fellow Gondolothrim on the earlier, bigger ships… perhaps on the _Rehto,_ or even the fair _Estel_ behind her, but no — he was on the smallest.

However, his disappointment in learning this was not great, and did not last very long at all once he saw her and boarded her, for she was still as fair and graceful as the others. 

Below his dangling, bare feet lay the Isle. Some Elves continued to load various items aboard — scrolls and star-maps to bring to the captain's quarters, books, and more such delicate items for which it would do to pack last — though still many others now left the wharf to find their homes and say goodbye to friends and family. To the West, beyond the dimming horizon, six silver stars glittered above the waves on their way to explore its depths… unknown. His mind wandered once more, flying across the waves ahead of him, on to find… 

“VORONWË!”

He jumped, startled, nearly falling off the rigging before managing to catch himself again and smoothly feign none of that had happened. Once he had his wits about him once more, he looked down at whoever had so scornfully called his name, and paled. “My apologies!”

Círdan’s annoyed glare broke into something like exasperated chuckles. “Ever the imaginative one, you are. I do hope you will not stay this distracted on your voyage.”

“I assure you, I will not, you have my word,” he laughed in response, the slightest bit embarrassed.

“Good!" He raised a hand above his head to wave, beckoning Voronwë to follow him. "Come down, I wish to speak with you and would rather not be forced to strain my voice and yell to you from this distance!”

 _Oh?_ Voronwë nodded with a small laugh and hastened to get down, sliding down the ropes with ease, as if he had lived on them his entire life. “What about?”

“Follow. I shall take you to the shores, where it is quieter.”

Ever eager to please his uncle, Voronwë nodded again but did not speak; he did not wish to remain the impertinent, feather-brained Elfling he always suspected Círdan saw of him. Indeed, he was not yet even a millennia of age; he could not help that his mind was constantly flying as free as an osprey.

Next to Círdan, he did feel young, and inexperienced (likely because it was true). Círdan was far taller than he. He had been kindly and as much of a central figure in his life as his parents had been. Now that he was leaving, he felt the need for his remaining relative's approval more than ever. Their walk to the water’s edge was silent. No matter how hard Voronwë attempted to unravel what Círdan might be thinking, the Sinda’s expression was unreadable beyond his usual thoughtfulness. Had it been anyone else, Voronwë would have asked outright what the matter was, but he held his tongue.

Círdan led them both off the wharf, and Voronwë regretted leaving his shoes on board, for the wood splintered a little from being worn with exposure to the elements. The elder stepped down onto the sand off the main path, and to the water's edge, below the wharf itself. Barnacles studded the posts surrounding them, and the waves lapped at their feet. He continued for some time, following the shoreline, until he seemed to deem they were far enough away from the ship and the others their conversation would not be overheard by many, if any at all.

There, he stopped, and clasped his hands behind his back, looking at the ship once more. Voronwë mimicked his posture, and followed his gaze. His eyes landed on _Oaris_. A few lanterns on-deck cast rippling reflections in the water below her, as well as from the windows in her hull, and a faint Song drifted in the breeze from the homes on land in celebration and well-wishing.

No doubt Círdan did not find this moment awkward, but Voronwë could not help wringing his hands behind his back. He glanced up, and then to the ship again.

After what felt like forever, Círdan spoke first. “Are you excited?” His tone was neutral, and he only turned his head slightly to the side to face Voronwë, looking at him from the corners of his eyes.

A simple question.

“Oh! Yes, very much.” Voronwë nodded rapidly — _too eager, damn it! No, stop, stop making a fool of yourself_ — then less rapidly, then stopped altogether, opting instead for more words in an effort to seem more composed. “I have long dreamt of this day.”

“Ah, as have many, so it would seem. And yet…” Círdan trailed off, looking distantly into the horizon.

Voronwë looked up at him expectantly, tilting his head to the side in an effort to understand what Círdan might mean. When the Elf did not elaborate, he forced himself to ask: “...and yet?”

A long, deep breath. “And yet I feel the time is not now.”

Voronwë blinked.

“...pardon? Not now? I do not understand you.”

“Neither do I, but I feel it. I cannot explain, I _feel_ it, Voronwë.” Círdan sighed — a forceful, swift one — and took Voronwë's shoulders firmly in his hands to turn them so they faced each other. “Forgive me for being so blunt, and… well, discouraging… but I believe honesty and bluntness is best in matters such as these. Your voyage will not be easy, whatever I feel, whether I am right or I am wrong, and that is a fact. You understand not what you are going up against; the water is _not_ your friend.”

Little did the words of Círdan affect Voronwë’s mood, for though he paid heed to them he did not fully understand their weight and meaning in his naïvety. He thought for a moment, but then smiled as though to reassure him he knew of what the shipwright spoke. “I know it will not be easy. If it were easy, it would have been done by now.”

The elder’s voice remained as stern as before. “I am serious! Listen to me, you are young and therefore stupid. No — before you open your mouth to protest, I do not mean it as an insult, nor even to you personally, but merely a fact, a characteristic of all Elves of your ripe age. Heed my words, _carefully._ I…” He trailed off, and a shadow of grief passed over his eyes. “I need you to remain safe, Voronwë. I owe it to your mother. And to your father. And you to your King… yet I fear this voyage will turn astray. I could not live with the knowledge that I sent you along to your death on a vessel of my own making if I could have stopped it.” His voice lowered even further, so Voronwë had to concentrate to hear him above the waves. “Consider what you are doing. Should you leave, you may never — nay, will never, I think — return.”

Círdan had seldom spoken with such weight before. Voronwë weighed the meaning of his words carefully — or, rather, at least, _more_ carefully than he had before. He was silent for a long moment. And though his eyes remained downcast on the sand beneath his feet, he said, “I see what you are saying: you believe should I go, I shall die. But I beseech you, understand that I cannot stay. I have a King, and a mission and orders to do this, so I must. If I stay, I will be sent into battle and die by the hand of orcs rather than the hand of the Sea. I cannot. I thank you for your care.” 

He looked up, the smallest and most tentative of smiles on his face. “You have been a father to me here, Uncle, and I thank you, but I cannot stay. Please try to understand me. I cannot, the Sea calls me, I cannot turn away.” Though Círdan opened his mouth to speak, Voronwë could not help but overwhelm his efforts with his continuous waterfall of words. He was only dimly aware in the back of his mind he should probably apologize for interrupting the elder, but in all honesty he paid little mind to it. Once he’d started, he could not stop. “I must go, I can hear it calling me and I long to leave these shores and sail to Aman, whether for the destination or the journey in itself I cannot tell, both are equal in the strength of their pull on me. As you could not explain your feeling, I cannot explain mine. Perhaps the Lord of the Waters himself calls for me to go,” he continued with a small, breathless laugh, “I do not know. But I must, please try to understand.”

Círdan was silent, staring at him with the same, unreadable expression. However, after a minute, he smiled warmly and reached out to rest a hand on Voronwë’s shoulder. “Alas, it is as I feared. You have your mother’s spirit.”

Voronwë beamed up at him, hope in his eyes. “And yours.”

Círdan laughed, and though at first he kept his mouth open to say something else, he seemed to decide against it at the last minute, shutting it. Instead… he pulled Voronwë into an embrace, which the younger Elf happily reciprocated. “If you will not stay, then promise me you will do everything in your power to stay safe, and come back, _onya_.”

Voronwë smiled at the name, and nodded once, as much as their tight embrace would allow, fiercely. “I promise. I will return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess this is happening......this is my first attempt at a long-fic ever, and we will see how it goes! I am very excited and have a lot planned in terms of drama over this voyage, character development, changing relationship dynamics, and then, of course, hardships they will face.
> 
> Huge thank you to Anoriath for beta-reading!


	2. Departure

Finally.

_Finally._

As the bow pulled nigh the point of breaking, the voyaging Elves rushed to say their farewells to friends and family, ere they strode to their posts upon the ship.

Voronwë was equal in eagerness and activity to the rest, though he was not actively running about. He stood on deck and leaned over the polished railing, overlooking the morning's frantic, last-minute preparations, having nothing to do himself. His eyes often glanced of their own accord towards the Eastern skies for the first light of Arien that would signal they were to set off. The dawn was cool. A warm, good wind swelled from the East, blowing what ropes hung loose and in pulleys from various parts of the ship so they knocked against each other and strained against their fastenings with eager clinks. The wind would aid them — that is, if it would first leave off blowing some of his loose hair across his face. _Manwë is by our side. It would be nice, though, if he would allow us to see and not blind us with our own hair._

He reached into a small pocket in his trousers for a sand-colored sash to remedy this. Holding it in his teeth, he gathered his hair in a bunch on the back of his head. It was slightly sticky with salt from having been hanging loose all this time by the water. He tied his hair in place with some haste that left loose strands flying across his face and hanging down below the makeshift updo, but overall the amount getting in his way was greatly reduced. 

_Much better._

He looked towards the skies once more, vision now unobscured. Indeed, the heavens were slowly illuminated with a soft pink glow that reflected on all it touched. _Oaris’_ white decks and planking glowed rosy in this promising light as she drifted slowly up and down with the rising tide. 

_She is a pink pearl, a lucky one. I fancy we have great triumphs ahead of us, on her._

“Perhaps. Indeed, I hope you are correct, and often wish I had but a fraction of your optimism.” 

A warm, firm hand placed itself on Voronwë’s shoulder. He turned around to face whoever it was that had spoken to him (though he recognized the voice without a doubt).

“Ahh, I spoke aloud?”

Círdan smiled. “That you did.”

There was mutual laughter, and then a comfortable silence. If they remembered their conversation the previous night, neither wanted to dwell on it further. The half-Noldo attempted to take advantage of the moment and commit Círdan’s features to memory: silvery, straight hair, white eyebrows and lashes, a defined jaw, sun-spots upon his brow and grey eyes, the corners of which wrinkled when he smiled. He was smiling now, so Voronwë had a clear impression of exactly what they looked like — three to either side of his face — though upon closer inspection, the emotion in them was not happiness… it was something else. Voronwë searched his features for what it could be, having always been stumped by this before. He was… oh.

_Oh._

Oh, he had not expected this, and he involuntarily took a deep breath, standing a little straighter, his own smile widening.

_Proud._

Círdan was proud of him.

He knew not what to do beyond stand there, smiling up at him, trying to convey without words his adamant determination not to disappoint him. He vowed he would not.

The old Sinda’s smile softened. No doubt the words themselves felt strange on his tongue, as he had never said them before. So he did not say them. Instead, he simply let the moment pass and unfold as it would.

When the moment passed, and it was time to go, Círdan held out a small parcel he had hidden about his person. “For good luck on your journey, and a reminder of what lies behind you, but follows you in spirit.”

Voronwë glanced between the parcel and Círdan, but eventually took it, and untied it. The simple packaging fell away to reveal strands of carefully strung pearls and seashells — hair ornaments — woven into a net. He was by no means the kind of Elf to adorn himself in finery and admire his visage in a mirror, so he had little of pretty things to call his own. This, however… this was by far the fairest he’d ever seen. His mouth opened once, twice, to speak, but only a stuttering voice came out. “I… I-I cannot accept this, this is too much…”

“Hush. You will take it. I reject your refusal. Besides,” Círdan’s eyes twinkled, “when you succeed and enter into the Halls of Manwë, I would not have my nephew looking like a vagabond.”

That particular word choice — _when_ — was not lost on either of them, though Voronwë wondered who his uncle was most trying to convince.

He ignored such thoughts, however. Instead, a small chuckle escaped him as his eyes cast over the gift once more, turning it about in his hands, delicately grazing his fingers over the fine artistry. His voice was equally small. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Círdan squeezed his shoulder and pulled him in for one last embrace. Many mariners (the less polite of the crew) grew restless. The helmsmen at their place at the tiller and the crew climbing the rigging to the yards and manning the sheets paused in their duties to watch, as they were eager to catch the breeze of the rising dawn. Arien was nearing the edge of the world, awaiting to spill her fire over all and signal their beginning — but none dared directly speak up to the shipwright out of respect for him. Voronwë was not oblivious to their stares, but he could not care less; he returned his embrace and muttered another thanks, which was happily received.

All too soon, Círdan pulled away. “Tarry no longer, you must be on your way.” He raised his voice and arms, and shouted to the whole crew in a voice unwavering, “May Manwë fill your sails with winds at your backs, may Ulmo grant you safe passage through his waters, and may Varda spread the skies before you clear and bright, to guide you on your path!” A resounding cheer went up, and Voronwë stepped back to join the others, while his uncle turned around and climbed off the ship.

Many shouts of wishes for Beleriand echoed across the deck while some Elves tended to the ropes that moored _Oaris_ , pulling them on board. Voronwë set his gift back in the parcel and stowed it away on deck, carefully tucked between barrels to keep it safe, before he climbed up the rigging to the tallest mast, as nimble and deft as the monkeys in the still-wild Haradrim, and untied the rope that bound the sail on his side of the ship. Another Elf took to the other side, and a few more to the lesser sails.

“For King Turgon, for Gondolin, Beleriand!” came a cry from the captain, and with an echo, the crew hauled the sheets and the sails were cast down. The wind unfurled them as they fell in white cascades of fabric, light as a feather yet strong as canvas cloth, and silver ropes dangled and shone at their sides before suddenly pulling taught and holding the sails in place with a snap. It was, in no uncertain terms, nothing less than majestic. 

The bow was loosed to the West; the arrow flew.

 _Oaris_ lurched in the sudden catch of wind just as Arien’s first tentative beams of light kissed the blue water ahead in a dazzling display. She bowed, then rose as a swan upon water beating its wings, and Voronwë swayed on his perch at the movement. Slowly at first, she moved forward, with naught but a ripple to part the water at her bow, but soon enough she quickened and the water made way for her with a white V beneath her for her to pass; for she was light, and it took little effort to push her onwards if she was steered correctly. Still she swayed and rocked on the water… and it was a wonderful feeling. 

A surge of energy filled Voronwë’s body as another deep breath filled his lungs with air, and he beamed for all the world to see. He leapt to the rigging and hung out over the water’s edge with only one callused hand on the ropes to hold himself, eyes fixed on the nearing horizon as seabirds flew past to either side of him, crying out the excitement that he felt. He bid farewell, without so much as a second glance behind him, to snow atop mountains and wind-rustled leaves, _farewell, I journey yonder, away_ —

_Wait._

Turning back, he caught one last glimpse of the coasts of his homeland behind him. Nevrast lay far to the North, and Gondolin even farther east, but he could still glimpse Círdan on the docks of the Isle behind him, watching them depart. He waved, slow and uncertain. Then Círdan waved back, and for the first time, it came to him all he was leaving behind: family, his home, his people, and safety — however scarce. 

_Enough!_ He could ill afford to dwell on such thoughts now, not when adventure’s siren-song pulled him helplessly onwards. He looked ahead and closed his eyes, his smile still bright on his face, sunlight stroking his wind-whipped hair and water sprayed upon his brow. Yes, safety lay behind, but ahead… oh, but _ahead_ … Arien, Tilion, and stars innumerable lay above him; glittering seawater, Ulmo, and depths immeasurable below; and far on… far beyond his eyes could see… as a glimmering, phantom hope in the distance… lay Aman, Valinor, the land of the Valar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I wrote this, I suddenly had a vision:  
> Voronwe singing "How Far I'll Go" from Moana, just as dramatically.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> What can I say, except, "you're welcome"? For this image, the fun, this pun.....


End file.
